Broken Heart 09 Only Lycans Need Apply (21 page)

Somehow I doubted it.

“You’ve been looking for a while in the Sudan. Looking for them. Why?”

“To honor a promise made by Ruadan.”

“Maybe he’s the one who created all of this.”

“It’s possible,” said Drake in a distracted voice. His gaze was on mine, and he was getting . . . whew,
intense
. “He does have a flair for the dramatic. But still . . . I don’t believe he hid Shamhat and Amahté. They never meant to be gone for so long. But the vampires lost them. Or so we thought.”

Drake didn’t seem particularly interested in his words. His eyes were dilating, and I could have sworn they seemed to change entirely, becoming more animal-like.

I swallowed the knot in my throat.

“Moira.”

“Yes?”

Drake’s voice had a sensual quality that made my nerves prickle. The intent gleam in his jade green eyes warned me, but before I could protest, he lowered his head and pressed warm, soft lips against my mouth.

Oh, he’d kissed me before.

But this was more than just a hello kiss. This was an introduction-to-ravishment kiss. My whole body responded to the sensual invitation he offered.

Drake pulled me closer and deepened the kiss. He tasted like mints, and I wondered vaguely if he’d been chewing that gum Patsy had given him.

Damn, it had been a long time since I’d been kissed. And I don’t think I’d ever been kissed like this. His tongue flicked the corner of my mouth and a jolt of electricity zapped my very core.

Then he invaded, his tongue sweeping inside, drawing mine into a sensual mating dance.

Heat coiled in my belly. Arousal liquefied my protests and fogged my mind. Whatever doubts I had about this situation, about what was being asked of us by two vampires we’d never met and yet somehow owed, dissolved under Drake’s sensual onslaught.

On some level I knew that what I’d been searching for in the sands all these years, following in the footsteps of my grandfather, trying to honor his work and his legacy . . . that maybe I’d been looking for the wrong things in the wrong places. I was searching through time and civilizations for this feeling, for this . . . Oh, whoa.
This
man. I wanted this experience, these feelings.

I wanted Drake.

He stopped kissing me, his breathing erratic as he pulled back and offered me a lazy grin. Oh, if we only had all the time in the world. How tangled the sheets would be, how sweaty our bodies as we . . . He grinned.

I guess my thoughts showed on my face.

I was clinging to Drake’s shoulders, feeling unnerved. My mouth throbbed.

His face was all sharp angles, softened only by the fullness of his mouth. I considered the leather band that held back his wonderful hair. He guessed at my thoughts, I supposed, because he reached back and loosed his hair.

I drew my fingers through the fine raven waves. They were gorgeous and felt like silk.

“Wow,” I murmured.

He clasped the wrist not wrapped in his T-shirt and tugged me forward. “I want to kiss you again,” he said.

“If you insist.”

Desire flared in his eyes, and then he pushed lightly on my shoulders. I took the hint and moved fully onto the furs, lying down.

Drake did not lie down beside me. Instead, he got between my legs and tugged on the button and then the zipper of my khakis.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to kiss you.”

“My lips are up here.”

“There are some down here as well.” He stroked me through the pants, and I gasped.

“Wait a minute. You don’t have to go to all this trouble.” I stared at him. I felt my skin prickle and my heart turn over in my chest. It wasn’t like I was afraid of sex. Or of Drake. Two people engaged in copulation was an act as old as time, and didn’t necessarily bear the hallmarks of love. I couldn’t remember a time when I thought I was in love. Oh, there were the typical high school crushes, but in my adult life . . . nothing. I wanted men. I liked men. But I was easily bored.

I didn’t think Drake would ever bore me.

And that was the part—that he was different, that he could make my heart pound and my blood thicken, that an inexplicable tenderness wound through the heat and dark of my lust—well,
that
was the scary part. I suddenly wanted to get the whole sex thing over with. I was afraid this moment might mean more if we actually took the time to enjoy each other. And really, did we have the time? “We could just . . . you know, do it.”

He met my gaze. “No.”

He took precious minutes to unlace my boots and take them and my socks off. Then he returned and grasped the top of my pants. Before I realized what my body was agreeing to do, I’d lifted my hips and allowed him to shimmy my pants and underwear off.

Talk about feeling vulnerable! There I was with my lower half exposed to the hungry gaze of a werewolf. And he was fully clothed, which somehow made my capitulation more submissive—and erotic.

But he wasn’t finished.

Through my thin shirt, he cupped my breasts, stroking and molding. My nipples puckered, aching to be touched, to be kissed. But Drake tormented me for hours, days, eons, before pushing my shirt up, then reaching around to unsnap the bra. I realized he wasn’t going to take off my shirt or bra, if only because it might bump against the makeshift bandage on my hand.

His gaze feasted on my flesh. He just . . . looked. And my body responded with a terrible ache, a need so great that I trembled. He made that happen without even touching me. Then,
oh, then
, he circled one finger around my aureola, teasing my nipple with a flutter of a single fingertip. He moved to my other breast and tormented it just the same.

For the longest of moments, he did only those featherlight touches. And the only sounds echoing in the chamber were my harsh intakes of breath.

My stomach quivered.

I ached for more of his touch, but I didn’t ask. I wanted to beg, really, but I stayed silent. He placed his hands on either side of me, and leaned down, his gaze intent. He captured my gaze, kept it hostage, and continued a slow downward arc to my breasts.

His lips closed over one hardened peak.

I made a noise I don’t think I’ve ever made before—a cry of need and a sigh of longing tangled together.

Then he sucked my nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling against the sensitive flesh.

A low moan rose from my throat. He cupped my other breast and lightly pinched that nipple while using his tongue to torment the other.

I clenched the furs with shaking fingers, and I moaned again.

He released my breasts, his fingers dragging down the sides of my rib cage as his lips kissed inch after inch of my flesh. He took his time, as if we had all the time in the world, and I swear I nearly melted.

I’d heard women refer to feeling like they were “afire” during lovemaking. I knew what it took to reach orgasm. I mean, pleasure was pleasure, right? And I’d always believed that the term “making love” was for people intent on romanticizing a normal biological function.

But I’d never felt this way.

I’d never had a lover who wanted to devour me. Given that he was a werewolf, that phrase had a whole new meaning.

I was awash in sensations that ebbed and flowed like ocean waves hitting the beach. Wow. I was so overwhelmed with how Drake made me feel, I couldn’t even come up with an original metaphor.

Drake’s hands coasted to my hips; his mouth pressed on the skin above my pubic bone. He paused there, long enough to drag his fingers over my thighs, and then he pushed my legs up and settled into a prime position. My feet now rested on his back.

He layered kisses on the inner edges of my thighs. I was already slick, and my very core trembled as he stroked the flesh with lips and tongue. Just the edges, too. Never the center, where the ache bloomed and need pulsed.

Bastard.

I released the furs, my fingers digging into his beautiful hair. He murmured something in German, and the words vibrated against my agitated flesh.

“Oh, God!”

He lifted his head, that wicked gleam made brighter with his own desire. Then he said, “You can just call me Drake.”

I bopped the top of his head. “I’ll call you dead if you don’t—”

He slipped his tongue inside my swollen flesh, and rendered me speechless. He tasted me fully, and his tongue flicked over my entrance, then back up . . . and down again.

My erratic breathing hitched even more, and my body, already
afire
, damn it, seemed to burn even hotter.

His hot breath ghosted over my clit.

Then he sucked the sensitive nub into his mouth and flicked it with his tongue.

I think I blacked out for a second.

I couldn’t remember sex being like this before. Either Drake was really, really good, or I’d picked some really bad lovers.

Pleasure spiderwebbed through me, gossamer strings that pulled taut, that felt electric. I could barely stand being in my own skin.

His tongue started stroking my clit in a rhythm that drove me wild.

I could feel the rise of an orgasm, that first sweet swell of pleasure, and then Drake . . . stopped. He just fucking stopped.

“Argh!”

“Patience, my beauty,” he said in a hoarse voice.

I was reminded then that he’d received nothing from me, no stroking or touching, unless you counted frantic hair pulling. I had eagerly accepted the gift of his unselfish pursuit of my pleasure.

“Patience,” I agreed. And I would so pay him back for his torment. We’d see who had patience then.
Mwuhahahaha
—“
Oh
,” I said as his tongue slid over my clit, offering me both relief and agitation.

He slowly stroked me with that talented wolf-man tongue, building the fires again, and then I felt two of his fingers penetrate me. Whoa. He began to pump his fingers in the same rhythm as his tongue.

I sucked in deep breaths, but I couldn’t get enough air. The sensations incurred by such devoted skill forced my thoughts into a foggy daze. I couldn’t think beyond
Ohmyfreakingawdmoremoremore.

Because Drake apparently knew exactly what he was doing, because he was single-minded in his purpose, and because he could make me almost die from the pure, raw wanting . . . he curled his fingers upward and found a knot of flesh just inside my entrance.

He relentlessly licked my clit.

And that spot he’d found was a very sensitive bundle of nerves, which he stroked in a rough, wonderful way, matching the rhythm of his tongue once more.

I felt the swift rise of my pleasure, the orgasm that ballooned into heat and sound and light . . . and then burst like the crashing crescendo of every great song. My thighs clenched around Drake’s head, but he didn’t seem to mind. He slipped his fingers out of me, and slowed his tongue’s movements to soothing strokes.

I wanted him to experience the same as I had. I wanted him to feel as shaken as I did.

And I wanted him inside me.

I tugged on his shoulders until he took the hint and slid up to lie beside me. I turned into his embrace and saw the animal eyes. I was reminded that Drake was, quite literally, an animal. A werewolf.

“Are you afraid?” he asked.

“No,” I lied. But it wasn’t him that I was afraid of. It was this unfolding moment, this feeling that I had been changed by Drake’s lovemaking.

And it wasn’t over.

I kissed him.

I tasted my own essence on his lips, and merged my tongue with his. We melted into each other’s arms, deepened our contact. We both smelled like sex, and like need.

Desire and need streaked through me, pooling wet and hot between my still trembling thighs. Reaching between us, I stroked Drake’s cock through his jeans. Good Lord, he was huge.

He growled.

And I felt powerful.

I was provoking a werewolf.

I pulled away from his lips and kissed his jaw, dragging my mouth down his neck, then back up again. My fingers curled under the edge of his T-shirt, which I pulled up to expose the muscled planes of his body.

Drake was built. The man had nice abs. Hell, he had nice everything. Brown hair lightly furred his pecs and stomach. Feast! I worked my way over his pectorals, taking a detour to one coin-sized aureola and its tiny, hard peak. I tugged it between my teeth, flicking the tip rapidly. He groaned, his hands threading into my hair as I attacked his other nipple and gave it the same treatment.

“Liebling,”
he said. “Moira.”

I moved farther down his chest, exploring the muscled ridges of his stomach with my hands, my mouth, my tongue.

I slipped between his legs and tugged open the button to his jeans. I couldn’t get the goddamned zipper over his penis, so he choked out a laugh and helped me.

I removed his boots, then pulled off his jeans and silk boxers.

Then it was like Christmas morning and I had a new toy to play with. I grasped his cock, loving the silky hard feel of it against my palm.

Cupping his balls, I squeezed them lightly as I licked the tip of his cock, and then, because I didn’t have his patience, I leaned down and sucked him into my mouth. I swirled my tongue around the rim of his head.

His breathing went ragged and his thighs tensed.

He was breathing harshly, his hands cupping my head as I took him as far down as I could. I really liked the feel of his cock invading my mouth, and though I couldn’t admit to porn-star skill, I certainly had enthusiasm.

“Moira.” My name was both plea and demand.

I released his cock, gave the tip one last flick of my tongue, and then straddled his hips. I gripped his shaft and guided it inside me. For a moment I sat there, impaled, and enjoyed the feel of his penetration as he stretched, as he filled me.

He cupped my breasts, brushing the hard peaks with his thumbs. I leaned down, and he drew a nipple into his mouth and flicked his tongue rapidly across the peak. He switched to the other breast and gave it the same treatment.

Pleasure sparked, spreading heat through me . . . the fire again. The only sexual fire I’d ever experienced—like this act, and this moment—would burn me up until I didn’t exist.

Drake gripped my hips, his gaze on mine as he thrust upward.